


Gather No Moss

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Gen, M/M, Pre-Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Ryan arrives in Los Santos and something settles in him. That restless itch in the back of his mind quieting at last as the city gets its claws in him deep.





	Gather No Moss

When Ryan first starts out in the oh, so glamorous life of crime, he picks up the habit of never staying in one place for long. Always packs light - only the essentials - and keeps on the move because he's not a name, just yet. Just some stupid kid in way over his head and somehow or other managing to keep his head just above water.

He ends up moving across the country that way, like some kind of modern day drifter. Keeps it up once he hits Los Santos because the city is like nowhere else he's been. Alive, heart beating to a slow steady rhythm even as it bleeds corruption and crime like a mortal wound. 

Ryan arrives in Los Santos and something settles in him. That restless itch in the back of his mind quieting at last as the city gets its claws in him deep.

Old habits die hard, though, and Ryan spends money on shitty apartments around the city. He chooses neighborhoods here people know better than to ask questions, keep their heads down, and rotates between them on random basis. 

It's not a rule, not set in stone or solid and unwavering like the others he's set himself, but it's kept him alive for a long, long time. 

Ryan may have settled on Los Santos for now, but he doesn't make the mistake of setting down roots. Doesn't make the mistake of getting attached to the delightful wallpaper in one rundown dump, or the stellar view another has of the grimy alley through the living room window.

In the end that habit is what gives rise to the name he finally earns for himself. Initially there's a sarcastic, sneering twist to it uttered by a gang leader whose own name fades from memory soon after their working relationship comes to an end. One of many small, unimportant idiot in the city with a trumped-up sense of worth.

He'd sought out Ryan with the intent of beefing up his security for a job, all grand plans and overconfidence.

“My boys had a hard time tracking you down,” the man says, greasy and oily and repugnant, even for Los Santos. “Found a lot of places you _were_ , though.”

He pauses after letting the words fall from his mouth, weighted with importance, with meaning. Smug smirk on his face and raised eyebrow. Hoping to snare Ryan who's reputation is growing in Los Santos, rumors and whispers of his work finally starting to catch up to him.

Ryan looks at this man with his puffed up chest and gold-capped tooth shining under the lights, and shrugs. 

“Rover, wanderer. Nomad, vagabond, call me what you will.”

There's a moment of silence, then, heavy and disbelieving, and then - 

“Did you just fucking' quote Metallica lyrics at me you fuck?”

Well...

Ryan's neighbors had been blaring music that morning, loud and grating and sinking under his skin seemingly just waiting for this moment, and Ryan would hate to waste a perfect opportunity like this.

The man mutters to himself for several moments before flinging his hands up, sneer firmly in place as he looks at Ryan.

“Fuckin' fine, _Vagabond_ , you goddamn prick. You want this job or not?”

======== 

These days, Ryan has a bigger target painted on his back than ever before. Small-time thugs and bruisers hoping to make a reputation for themselves by taking the infamous Vagabond down like gunslingers in the Old West.

Thing is, Ryan's only gotten better since he started out. Has the confidence, the skills to match the rumors circulating in the wilds of Los Santos. Plays up his own reputation with the mask and an economy of words – lets others fill in the blanks how they will when he offers them up clipped answers or just looms. (A personal favorite, if only to see how other people react.)

He continues to pack light – only the essentials – but he's scaled back on slipping from safe house to safe house. He still does it though. Moving between the ones he has scattered all across Los Santos every week, sometimes longer if things are slow.

Somewhere along the line he started accumulating things. Things he shouldn't because it goes against the rules he set for himself years ago, and yet he still does it. Picks up little souvenirs from a job that went well, or more telling, a job that _didn't_. Some small trinket that caught his eye, reminders to himself about the life he lives, _don't forget_.

Things that don't fit easily into his pack with the weapons and ammunition, the clothes, the mask, the things that are important, necessary. Things that find their ways to bookshelves and on top of cabinets, that earn themselves a special case of their own. Things that gravitate to a certain safe house in a certain neighborhood Ryan finds himself gravitating towards more and more without realizing it at first.

Definitely a shithole of a place, but there's something to it that calls him back time and again.

It's where he realizes he has something of a problem.

Easy to ignore when he was always on the move, never somewhere long enough to really notice. Something he could pass off as coincidence, a certain degree of overall shittiness about the world no matter where he is.

Now, though.

Faced with a battle-scarred old tomcat glaring at him from the safety of Ryan's kitchen sink, it's a little harder to ignore.

“The fuck is this?” Ryan mutters to himself. 

The cat doesn't answer because it's a cat, but also because it's so busy growling at him. This continuous low, angry noise. It's missing an ear, remaining one pinned flat against its skull, fur fluffed out because Ryan is the kind of idiot to stand between it and the kitchen window.

“Okay,” Ryan says, because at this point why not go with it. “I know I closed that last night.”

The cat remains unimpressed and Ryan knows the feeling. 

“Right, okay then,” he says, and carefully removes himself from the line of fire. 

Slowly, carefully, Ryan moves back, away from the window. Far back enough the cat's growling falters, head turning to keep him in sight.

Ryan watches the cat who watches him in turn, and sighs when it starts growling again.

“It's gonna be a long day, isn't it?”

======== 

Ryan ends up with a grumpy, sullen roommate who growls and hisses at Ryan whenever he moves to close – which in this case means stepping foot in the same room.

He's wary of the damn thing – only an idiot wouldn't be – but it seems content to leave him be if he returns the favor. And he does, if only because nothing seems to make it want to leave. No amount of invitingly open windows, or doors. No delicious trail of food, carefully placed and leading to the great outdoors – or at least whatever Los Santos has to offer.

Nothing gets it to budge, and so Ryan finds himself setting out bowls of food and water and wondering what people would say if they could see him now. 

“I feel like you're indifferent to my plight here,” Ryan tells it one day as he goes through his messages. “The damage this would do to my reputation alone.”

The cat, and Ryan refuses to give it a name because _no_ , flicks its ear in his direction but otherwise ignores him.

Which, yes, right. _Cat_ , but still.

“Rude,” Ryan says, to which there is – shockingly – no response.

======== 

Time goes by and the cat slowly seems to realize that growling and hissing at Ryan is having zero effect. That this particular human is exceedingly stupid and will never not be, and resigns himself to living with such a defective being.

For his part Ryan is fucking elated the cat's given up on growling every time it sees him. Slowly works his way up to the damn thing not bolting when he gets within five feet of it, to grudging acceptance of being within arm's reach.

“Interesting,” Ryan says, when he wakes up the morning after he stumbled into the apartment after a job gone wrong to find the cat staring at him from inches away, slight weight on his chest. “I didn't realize you had a mode other than angry.”

The cat is _purring_ , its deep rumble sinking into Ryan's aching bones, helping to soothe his hurts, settle his nerves. When Ryan speaks its ear goes back and it hisses, but it's still purring.

“Right, yes, okay,” Ryan says, smiling a little. “Message received.”

The cat doesn't roll its eyes at him because it's a cat, but if it wasn't? Eye rolling for days.

======== 

After that, things settle into a mutual acceptance of each others' existence in the same space.

The cat slowly, begrudgingly allows Ryan closer. Lets him pet it so long as it's under the cat's own terms and conditions that seem to change and shift at any given moment. It still growls at him when it feels Ryan's encroached on its space. Will hiss and swipe at him if he doesn't move fast enough to suit it, but for the most part tolerates his presence.

Ryan buys a set of pet bowls painted a deep, glossy black with tiny cat skulls because they catch his eye. 

The cat is duly unimpressed with them when Ryan presents them to it with a flourish, lips peeled up over its teeth.

“I know,” Ryan says, grinning like an idiot. “They're great.”

======== 

After a while, Ryan realizes the cat became Cat in his head, and cannot stop laughing when he does.

At himself, at Cat, who the fuck even knows anymore, really, because apparently Ryan's decided to hell with letting himself get attached to things. 

To putting down roots, no matter how tentative, to this crappy little apartment and the neighbors who know something is up with the guy in 7B but don't ask questions, don't pry. To this stupid ball of fur and sharp edges who looks at Ryan like he's a threat some days, and others as punishment.

Perfect, really.

======== 

Cat isn't the only stray in Ryan's life, just the most prominent. The only one bold enough to move into Ryan's space and fucking dare Ryan to do something about it.

There are dozens of strays in the alley behind his building alone. Cats and kittens, a few dogs. Thin and ragged and skittish as fuck.

He's seen shady looking figures lurking around, eyeing them up and doesn't like it. Not one fucking bit, especially when he gets word of a dog fighting ring coming up in the area, and fucking really, it doesn't take a genius to know why.

Los Santos is dirty and ugly and utterly unforgiving and so very brutally unapologetic about it, which is what makes it so appealing to Ryan. No sugarcoating, no illusions. What you see is what you get, but there are some things that you just don't do.

Maybe Ryan's naive in this, too damn soft for the kind of man he is, but - 

It doesn't take much in the end. Rumor and speculation make up for whatever shortcomings Ryan may have, so that when the fuckers running the dogfight ring see the mask, everything that follows is _easy_.

Sometimes the promise of a threat is enough, other times a demonstration is needed. Sometimes, though, sometimes Ryan doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, fucking delights in it when faced with the right kind of asshole.

People like this, Ryan likes to take his time, do the job right. Send a message, if you will. One that can't be misinterpreted (If it is, Ryan's more than willing to send another one, see if that one sticks.)

======== 

A job takes Ryan out of Los Santos for a few weeks. Has him calling in favors with his neighbor three doors down to check on Cat, make sure he has water and food. Fretting over a one-eared cat who's probably overjoyed to have the place to itself and may or may not be plotting the best way to remove Ryan from the picture permanently.

When he gets back, it's to find - 

“The fuck is _this_?” 

There are kittens.

Three of them to be exact, and every single one of them is focused on fucking his place up.

Zipping around being tiny, furry, holy terrors, and then Cat is growling at Ryan. Sharp little teeth bared as he moves to put himself between Ryan and the kittens.

Ryan runs a hand over his face, watching the kittens team up to take down the ferocious kitchen trash can, and scowls at Cat.

“You're intent on ruining my reputation, aren't you?”

Cat hisses, and Ryan wonders how the fuck this even happened. He's a _dog_ person.

Thinks, for one bright, shining moment of pawning the little monsters off on the neighbor who's been looking after Cat. She's a sweet kid who would deserve a set of matched kittens after dealing with surly, old Cat this whole time. But then Cat picks one of them up by the scruff of its neck and disappears down the hallway, the other kittens trailing after him.

======== 

Ryan has no doubt the kittens will be staying. 

They're fucking tiny and helpless when they're not being tiny _menaces_ , and Cat would probably kill him in his sleep if he took them to the same shelter that took in the dogs from the dogfight ring.

Ryan is also, apparently, the most uncreative person in the world when it comes to naming cats. Not so bad that he'd name them after Cat, no, but.

“The Edgars,” Ryan tells his neighbor the next morning when she stops by to check on Cat, not realizing Ryan's back early. 

She stares at the kittens, fingers twitching, and Ryan relents, letting her hold the little balls of fluff because he's not heartless no matter what the rumors surrounding him have to say on the matter.

======== 

Cat takes on the responsibility of parenting the Edgars seriously, teaching them the finer points of being a cat. How to stalk and pounce and hunt.

Oh, the hunting.

Ryan wakes up more times than he'd care to count to dead or dying mice and rats placed on the pillow beside him. On his pillow, in his shoes, tucked under a piece of furniture that goes unnoticed too long. Every-goddamned-where, and always, always, Cat is there, proud of his little hellions.

And then comes the days the Edgars bring home a young crow. Hurt and yet still able to make enough noise that one of Ryan's neighbors pounds on the wall.

“Fucking - “

Ryan shoos the Edgars away and stares down at the crow, which has quieted but looks ready to throw down the moment Ryan makes a wrong move.

Cat, of course, is watching. Tip of his tail flicking, ear pricked forward, waiting.

“Oh, no,” Ryan says, because rats and mice are one thing, this crow is another and Ryan knows crows, all right. Knows they're the bird equivalent of the mafia and there are an astounding amount of them living in the area. “Not this time, you asshole.”

Ryan may not be an expert in bird-care, but the internet is a thing and Ryan's not completely hopeless. 

The crow, not unlike Cat, isn't very impressed with Ryan but allows him to handle it without too much fuss. 

Food and water and a safe place to rest away from Cat and his menaces and the crow recovers quickly enough. Takes flight a few days later, raucous cawing as it rises, and Ryan hopes to whatever higher being may be listening that it doesn't hold a grudge.

======== 

While Ryan's personal life may be a disaster, his professional one is anything but. Rumors continue to grow around his name, his reputation.

Sometimes this means he gets to pick and choose his jobs, others it means someone's gunning for him. Hoping to be the one to kill the big, bad Vagabond and gain some notoriety Los Santos.

And this is where Ryan's disaster of a personal life kicks into play. It's where Cat looms out of the dark, alerting Ryan to a presence outside his apartment on the fire escape. 

It's where Ryan's set to meet with a prominent gang leader for a job, and meets with betrayal instead. Bullets flying and Ryan taking cover behind a shipping container, calm and steady and marking positions in his head as he waits for the idiots firing at him to reload.

Ryan hears the sound of a crow, loud and startling, and sees a flash of movement from the corner of his eye followed by surprised yelling.

Pops up from behind cover to see crows attacking his former potential employer and -

“Attempted murder,” Ryan murmurs to himself, stunned and a little ashamed of himself even as he takes careful aim. 

The first shot takes one of the bastards high in the shoulder and scatters the crows, leaving him free to finish the rest off to the sound of crow calls echoing around him.

======== 

The Vagabond has a reputation for being ruthless, unrelenting. Efficient, brutal when circumstances call for it. Cold and unfeeling, the fucking Terminator has nothing on him.

After the incident with the crows, another where Cat and the Edgars shredded a would-be assassin who made the mistake of breaking into Ryan's apartment when he wasn't there, the rumors start to lean more towards the supernatural.

“What.”

“Oh, you haven't heard?” Meg asks, delighted in the face of Ryan's confusion as she pampers Cat. 

“They say you're some kind of dark wizard now.”

“ _What_.”

======== 

Ryan finds another...well, calling him a stray would be misleading, but not by much.

He's tired and annoyed and there's a stranger standing in his living room holding one of his cats. It's one of the Edgars, hard to tell which one in the dark like this.

Not a threat, or at least not an immediate one because the Edgars haven't torn into him for trespassing, and Cat is perched up high and watching.

The guy's scrawny and scruffy with blood on his clothes and in his hair. From the way he'd startled when Ryan snuck up on him, he clearly not expecting anyone to be in the apartment. If he'd broken in a few hours earlier that would have been the case, but he didn't, and so Ryan came back to _this_.

“Could you maybe put my fucking cat down?” Ryan asks, nice and polite like he isn't holding a gun on the idiot who broke into his apartment. 

The guy blinks, looking down at the Edgar in question, and frowns. Takes note of the other Edgars who are inching closer to him, clearly curious. Cat up on top of a cabinet just getting to his feet, big and scarred and off-putting to most people. 

Looks at Ryan, who isn't wearing the mask or the face paint because the TSA tends to frown on on that kind of thing, but is very clearly not someone to be taken lightly.

“Er,” the guys says, pulling the Edgar closer to him, cradling him carefully. “I can explain?”

Ryan tips his head to the side. “Oh, please do.”

======== 

Gavin, the idiot's name is Gavin, cannot seem to explain anything ever in a way normal humans beings can comprehend.

“What?”

Gavin's looking at Ryan like he's the crazy one here, leaning away from him and still holding the Edgar. (Edgar II, with the white sock markings.)

“I said - “

“No,no,” Ryan says, feeling tired and defeated and just plain _done_. “That's not - “

“But it _is_ ,” Gavin insists, as if the laws of physics exist for lesser people than him. “It's simple, really.”

Ryan stares at him, at a loss as to how they got to this point. Moved on from Ryan wanting to shoot the intruder in his home just to get some sleep, to debating ridiculous hypotheticals with him.

There was an explanation in there somewhere, Ryan remembers. 

Complete bullshit that for the record, Ryan does not buy, but he's pretty sure Gavin isn't convinced Ryan's just a regular Joe who has murder cats and a gun as home security. (...On top of the actual security system Ryan designed that Gavin managed to get through, but that's another matter completely.)

Gavin opens his mouth, and stops. Frowning again as he suddenly seems to wonder the same thing.

“Ah...”

“Get out,” Ryan says, prodding Gavin to his feet. “Just. Fucking go.”

Gavin opens his arms to let Edgar II go and moves towards the door before he stops to look up at Ryan thoughtfully. “Thanks for not shooting me?”

It shouldn't be a question. Really should not be a question.

“Don't let it go to your head,” Ryan says, eyebrow going up when Gavin looks like he's about to blurt out a smart comeback. “And don't, all right? Just. Don't.”

“Sorry for breaking into your apartment,” Gavin says, the same say someone might apologize for bumping into you on the street. “Won't happen again.”

For some reason, Ryan has a hard time believing that.

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says, pleasant and unassuming as he sees Gavin out. “Nice meeting you.”

======== 

See, the reason Ryan didn't want to refer to Gavin as a stray has a lot to do with past experience in the area. (Cat. The Edgars. Russell.)

He doesn't understand why Gavin keeps coming back again and again. Keeps poking and prodding and trying to crack the half-hearted civilian persona Ryan's adopted since staking a claim on this apartment. Since he'd stopped moving from safe house to safe house, stopped looking at this place as just another property he owned. Since he went and allowed himself to get attached.

“Should I just get you a key?” Ryan asks, shoulder aching and too tired to bother with a convincing cover story as he heads for the fridge and the ice packs he keeps in the freezer. “I'm a little rusty on social customs in this area.”

Gavin snorts, looking up from his laptop and when the hell did that become a thing? Gavin breaking in and working on whatever like that was something people did?

“Wouldn't be as much fun if you did,” he says, laughing at Ryan because that's definitely thing he does. Just goes at laughs at Ryan all the fucking time.

Ryan presses an ice pack against his shoulder and bumps the freezer door shut, turning to look at Gavin, who looks right back.

Still scrawny and scruffy but this time there's no blood, no bruises or signs of injury. Just dark circles under his eyes and an overall air of exhaustion clinging to him.

“... how's work?” Ryan asks, hesitant because that's not a thing they ask each other, but Gavin's been coming here for a while now. 

Getting past Ryan's security like it's child's play no matter what Ryan does to stop him. It's infuriating in a way, but then there's this too. Gavin easy and relaxed in Ryan's space while the Edgars fawn all over him, fucking _adore_ him.

Gavin rubs his eyes, smile going soft at Ryan's awkward concern. “Busy.”

Ryan stares at him, ice pack against his shoulder and so very obviously not a normal civilian, but the same can be said about Gavin and this is Los Santos. 

There are very few normal civilians in the city, everyone with their secrets and ambitions.

“That so.”

Gavin shrugs, and that's just the way it goes with them, apparently.

======== 

“Okay, but,” Gavin says, laughter in his voice so thick he can barely get the words out, “what if you _could_ , Ryan? What if you could?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ryan hisses, he's so angry he can't see straight, and Gavin is _laughing_. “No you idiot, science doesn't work like that! The world doesn't work like that!”

Gavin opens his mouth to spew more mangled facts and Ryan shoves him off the couch, watches him roll around on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. He's not even properly laughing anymore, just making these stupid squeaking noises and Ryan tries and fails to keep the glare up because this _fucking idiot_.

======== 

Ryan should have expected something like this, to be honest. Really should have seen it coming and all that.

“How's work?” he asks, sliding up behind the thief. “Keeping you busy?”

The thief, fucking _Gavin_ , freezes. Hands hovering over the computer keyboard as files copy over to the USB inserted into the tower.

Important, sensitive files his current boss hired him to protect because someone's been after things like that. Been using them to bring down gangs in the area, working for some unknown looking to move in and take over.

No name to speak of, no hint to who it could be with security footage wiped and no eyewitnesses. 

There's tension to Gavin now, but his voice when he speaks is calm and steady and so very him.

“Oh, you know how it is,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Ryan, eyes narrowing as he takes in the mask. “Do this, do that. Rush, rush, rush.”

Ryan takes a step back, and Gavin turns around to face him, careful to keep his hands where Ryan can see them.

Not that it does much to set Ryan as ease when his mind helpfully fills in the blanks in regards to Gavin.

The accent should have been a major clue, but the fact that Gavin was good enough to get past Ryan's security with ease, should have been another. Other things too, little hints and clues that Ryan's mind filed away but didn't look at too closely.

“Really.”

Gavin hums, low and thoughtful and says, “Thirty seconds.”

“What?”

Gavin gestures at the computer monitor to the progress bar, and repeats himself. “Thirty seconds.”

The problem is, though, that Ryan's on a job. And, sure, Ryan isn't fond of the asshole who hired him, but he has a reputation to maintain. Incredible success rate that few can match. Hired by a man with enough resources to make Ryan's life a misery if he crosses him, and sometimes you bite down on your pride because this is Los Santos.

And also Gavin is the annoying fly in the ointment that asshole and his allies have been trying to swat for the last few months. (Or, something less of a mangled metaphor.) 

“The fuck is going on?”

Gavin's eyes dart over Ryan's shoulder where one of his current colleagues has appeared, because of course, why not?

“Vagabond?”

Ryan sighs, shoulders slumping as he glances at the guy. Takes his eyes off Gavin for a split second, just enough - 

Gavin doesn't disappoint, twisting around to grab the keyboard that he swings with surprising force and Ryan staggers, goes down to his knees. Hears a soft, “Sorry, love,” and then a jumbled mess of sounds and noises before everything blessedly fades out.

======== 

The problem with getting attached, with setting down roots, is that you never know when that's going to turn around and bite you in the ass. 

Ryan knew that once upon a time, and he still fucking forgot. Stopped looking at his fucking souvenirs and remembered what they meant. Or maybe he didn't forget, maybe he just got better at lying to himself.

Whatever the reason, he's fucked.

His boss isn't pleased that Gavin got away with the files, isn't pleased that a scrawny twig like Gavin managed to get the drop on his heavy hitter, but isn't willing to challenge Ryan on it at the moment. Is willing to let him go off to lick his wounds in private for now.

That's kind of the problem right there, though, because Gavin got the files.

Gavin got the files and got past Ryan and it's only a matter of time until the asshole who hired Ryan starts to wonder why that was, when Ryan's the fucking Vagabond. Los Santos' bogeyman.

“Stop your caterwauling,” Ryan says, eyeing Cat's pet carrier warily as the bastard attacks the wire door keeping him confined.

The Edgars are quiet, watchful, in their own carriers, and that's something of a relief, but Cat has always been a bastard. Just yowls louder, and Ryan tries to ignore him as he looks around the apartment, appalled at himself for all the shit cluttering the place up.

More than just the essentials, important, necessary, and there's a hollow ache in his chest as he looks at all of it. 

He's been in Los Santos too long, gotten soft, complacent.

“Fucking Christ,” Ryan says, turning his back on the shit he's accumulated and reaching for the essential, the necessary. 

Ryan doubts he'll have to worry about his current – former? - employer for much longer if the pattern holds true and Gavin and whoever he's working for bring him down. He has a little time before that happens, hopefully just enough to tie up some loose ends before he leaves. 

======== 

“I can explain,” Gavin says, tentative, uncertain. “Ryan, I can explain.”

Cat is hissing in his carrier and the Edgars are restless in theirs. Gavin's leaning up on his elbows, blankets around his waist and Ryan is slowly closing the distance between them.

“Oh?” There's a decided sense of déjà vu to this little meeting. “Please do.”

Gavin eyes move past the barrel of the gun pointed at him to meet Ryan's eyes.

He's scrawny and scruffy and there's blood on his clothes, in his hair. White bandages peeking past the sleeve of his shirt, small cuts on his face, his hands. 

Gavin's a little worse for wear and staring at Ryan like he's just put two and two together and come up with the sum of _Ryan is the fucking Vagabond._

Real-life Terminator and possible dark wizard with an overabundance of animal familiars, who the fuck knows anymore.

They're in a shitty little house close to the rail yards, small and camped and rotting away and Ryan burned quite a few favors to find it. To find Gavin because Ryan has loose ends to tie up, doesn't he.

Ryan leans in and presses the gun against Gavin's forehead. 

“Ryan - “

Ryan watches Gavin. Familiar now, too much, really, and this is where the fearsome Vagabond's reputation, the rumors, the speculation, fail him.

“Cat's on a restricted diet,” Ryan says, acting as though he doesn't sound like an utter madman right now. “Don't give in, no matter how much he screams.”

Gavin's staring at him. Probably trying not to say anything to set off the lunatic holding a gun on him while giving him the rundown on the care and feeding of his cats.

“No wet food for Edgar I. Edgar II takes supplements – there's a week's supply and a list of places to refill them. Edgar III is not allowed kitty treats for the next week. He knows why.”

“Ryan, what?”

Ryan lowers the gun. Gavin is watching him, confused and a little alarmed, but not nearly enough for what just happened.

“Cat hasn't tried to kill you and the Edgars love you,” Ryan says, calm, steady. “Anyone else and it'd be a slaughter.”

Not that Ryan doesn't have a list of people he'd willingly inflict that on, but.

Gavin's still confused, but the fact that Ryan isn't pointing a gun at him, isn't trying to kill him after the fiasco earlier that night gives him the confidence to reach out for him.

“Did I hit you harder than I thought?”

Ryan scowls at him, but it's wasted under the mask.

“A baby hits harder than you, shut up,” Ryan snaps, about to say more when the door to Gavin's room flies open.

“Hold it right there, fuckface!” someone yells.

Ryan looks over to see a figure framed in the doorway pointing a gun at him, light spilling in behind them.

“Michael, no!” Gavin yells, right into Ryan's fucking ear.

“Christ,” Ryan mutters, hand twisting in Gavin's shirt as he hauls him up out of the bed and towards the guy in the doorway before making a break for it. 

======== 

He gets e-mails, texts on a regular basis. They started as an apology, the explanation Ryan hadn't allowed Gavin to give all those months back. Fumbling and unsure, Gavin fascinated by Ryan and not knowing who he was, and unable to stay away, intent on puzzling him out. And then that night when Ryan caught him, and Ryan.

He should have shot him then, brought him before his then-employer and gotten paid for a job well done, but he hadn't, had he. Had gone and gotten attached to this exasperating idiot who didn't get that repeated breaking and entering was no way to build trust, that just kept coming back.

After that there's nothing for a while, Ryan still on the move taking jobs where he sees fit while he processes what Gavin told him. The things he did, risked because of Gavin.

And then he gets an email from Gavin and then a text a few days later.

Updates on Cat and the Edgars, the way they're adjusting to their new home with Gavin and his crew. The ones who have their sights set on ruling Los Santos, and don't intend to settle for anything else. 

Sometimes there are attachments included. Pictures, videos of Cat and the Edgars. People Ryan's never met but knows all the same thanks to Gavin's rambling emails and texts. The cats seem tolerate them well enough, and that's good, it's great.

Ryan tried, in the beginning, to put a stop to this. Changed his email, burned phone number after phone number but a day or two later there would be another email, another text. He'd be concerned if it wasn't Gavin, and _that_ should probably be reason enough for concern, but.

There's something very much like trust there between them, and Gavin is a persistent fuck.

And then one day Ryan gets a message that deviates from the careful script they've been following.

_I have a proposition for you._

Ryan raises an eyebrow and waits, and true to form a second message follows soon after.

_Not that kind of proposition!_

A third message, fast on the tail of the second.

_Shut up, Ryan. You know what I mean. And really, it's Geoff's proposition._

Ryan sits back and waits, and soon enough Gavin buckles down and sends another text sounding less frantic, desperate not to misunderstood.

_You know what we're planning._

Ryan considers it, what he knows, has pieced together from information he'd gotten from his contacts in Los Santos. The slow, methodical way Gavin's crew were weeding out competitors, rivals.

The Fakes are making a name for themselves in Los Santos, gaining the kind of reputation that builds rumors, encourages speculation.

_He wants to hire you._

======== 

Coming back to Los Santos isn't like coming home, no, but there's a degree of familiarity that feels like it could be, if Ryan let it.


End file.
